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Bullet proof glass is a misnomer.
First, it isn’t glass, not entirely. Thick plastics lie between the panes like an invisible shield.
Second, even at the highest grade it can only stop most bullets.
This meeting room is covered in it, of course. If Mycroft had his way they’d be gathering somewhere windowless and preferably below ground, well out of range of unnecessary risks. Not for his own sake, of course- almost no one outside of those who carry real power themselves realize the full extent of his own- but for those they’re meeting with.
These talks have been carefully negotiated in secret for almost a year. Certain intelligence powers who are otherwise loathe to share their assets, united to analyze and eradicate a particularly insidious terror network.
Half the battle had been proving it even exists. They don’t claim credit. They don’t advertise themselves on the internet. They are precise, turning individuals rather than cells, and unleashing them. Each time, it always looks like a lone actor. One unstable man.
Mycroft knows better.
They have talked strategy for the better part of a day when a meal break is called. He is unimpressed by the options, turning to inquire with Anthea about acquiring something else, when a nervous little buzz in his brain tells him something is wrong. Very wrong.
He’s clever, yes, blindingly brilliant at times, and a genius several times over by any standard of measure.
But he’s not omniscient.
There’s a small decoration on top of a tray of pastries. Flags, from all the countries represented, almost in the shape of a pinwheel. Barely perceptible behind it is a small glow. Infrared. Some sort of light.
He’s moving before his mind finishes processing, just as a flash of light sparks somewhere beyond the window. He shoves Anthea, hearing her yelp as she collides with the door and tumbles into the hallway, him chasing her, stumbling-
The impact feels like the world is ending. Plastic and glass explode in a rush of heat and sound, a fireball wiping out half the table and scattering bits of concrete to the wind where a wall used to be.
Mycroft comes back to himself on the floor, wheezing, a low ringing sound dulling his hearing. Pain rushes through him as he tries to sit up, leaning against the wall, and he struggles to remind himself pain is good. Pain means he’s alive. He’s hit something- the table, perhaps- his clavicle is certainly broken.
More pressing is the sharp of wood embedded again two of his ribs, a trickle of blood dampening his suit beneath it. Breathing is excruciatingly painful, every gasp a struggle. Even thinking about moving nearly makes him scream. His mind blurs.
Broken ribs. Tension pneumothorax. Possible lung puncture.
In a way, it’s a blessing. He might not have to suffer very long.
“...thea….” he tries, his mouth dry. He can just see one of her heels through the door.
He wonders if anyone else here knows her real name. Knows who ought to be called if she’s in a bad way. That she’s got seven nieces and nephews who call her Auntie Bee, because she flatly refuses to answer to Bertha, though she does let Mycroft get away with Bertie, on occasion.
No one here except her knows about Gregory. Who will tell him? Who will tell him if we’re gone?
Fumbling in his pocket and grinding his teeth to redirect the pain of even this small movement, he gets his cell phone out and triggers his personal security protocol: a signal to his people and orders to remotely secure the devices of everyone in the building. The final piece is a recording application, audio and video, that will send off for analysis automatically.
Must be evidence, somewhere. Proof.
He tilts the camera up, toward where the catering had been. Here. Start here.
He hears the footsteps before he sees any of them, a series of heavy boots on the stair giving him ample time to prepare. The phone goes under the table, nudged by his foot with a prayer that the camera can still see. There’s no way he can run, not with a chunk of wood obstructing every inhale. The pain is excruciating enough that his mind cannot focus on being worried about it. Nor about those coming in. Shock. Biological survival methods.
Shutdown imminent.
It might be a rescue team, after all, though the remaining functional part of his mind doubts it. Correctly, as it happens, because the people coming up the steps aren’t his creatures, nor those of any of the other nations present.
Private military. Veterans of other forces, or trained as such.
No rules. No moral code.
He barely flinches when one of them fires a round through the head of one of his compatriots who had been far closer to the blast, badly burned and scarcely breathing except in long, struggling gasps not terribly dissimilar to his own.
She’s quiet, now.
He doesn’t shy away from eye contact. If they’re going to kill him there is not much he can do about it. He’s not going to beg.
“Show me the survivors.”
The voice doesn’t come from this room- it’s distorted. Radio or cell phone, perhaps. There’s a familiar tone to it, Mycroft is sure he’d recognize it without the tinny effect- should he be concerned that the vast archives of his memory won’t pull it up immediately? Possibly. But air is the only thing his mind can seem to devote itself to, air and breathing and the petty concerns of respiration.
A woman pans a camera on her stab vest about the room. The voice begins naming names as the camera turns, selecting from the narrow pool of survivors.
“Oh, Mycroft Holmes. I should be so lucky. Don’t you dare die on me.” He can almost hear the smile in the man’s voice. I know him, I must know him- “ Take them. Eradicate the rest.”
Five seconds of gunfire and several of the best minds in global intelligence are permanently silenced. Mycroft’s cheeks are damp. His eyes burn, but he watches, noting the names of the lost with whatever brain cells remain separate from his struggling breath.
Someone has to.
When they wrench him off the floor he makes a noise he can scarcely recognize as human. He hadn’t realized the pain could get worse . Something feels like it tears within him, the rivulet of blood from his side flowing faster and hotter. He can’t walk. They have to drag him, his knees scraping against the detritus on the floor.
“Don’t worry, Holmes,” the woman says. “We won’t let you die.”
He’s blacking out before they even reach the hall, but there is one small detail in the periphery of his vision gives him hope.
Anthea is gone from the hallway, her heels abandoned and tucked under the small table holding a shattered plant in the hall.
Run quickly, he wills to her, wherever she is hidden. Keep unseen.
You know what to do.
***
He wakes on a table, screaming. His body is held down- straps across his arms, his legs- a band of leather is quickly shoved into his mouth and he clamps down, anything to fight the pain. “Shhh,” the woman holding the knife says- same one as before, though now she’s wearing a coverall. And, presumably, his blood.
Like a crime scene.
Like I am the crime scene.
It’s the wrong thing to think, because that makes him think of Greg, and Greg has no business here with all this… evil.
“Eh, I’m a copper, love,” Greg’s voice whispers in his ear, no doubt another sign of his deteriorating condition. “Evil’s part of the job.”
“Give him a bit more,” she murmurs to someone else in a mask and scrubs, which is how Mycroft realizes he’s in surgery and it feels like he’s not gotten any anaesthetic. “Hurry up. The shock will kill him.” She cleans closer. “You’re not allowed to die yet, Mr. Holmes. We’ll just get this pesky bit of table out of you first.”
He screams again, muffled as he feels the prick of an injection.
“Staples,” she says, and the world tilts. He feels faint. “Go to sleep, Holmes. Go to sleep….”
When he awakens again he’s on a cot, and he tries to sit up, certain that they’ll still be there- but he can’t, his abdominals entirely refuse to support him. One arm is bound against him, no doubt to secure his clavicle. His side is killing him- even the suggestion of moving makes him feel nauseous. All he can do is groan, a pained, wheezing noise that he tries to keep quiet. Keeping still for longer before they realize he is awake will give him time to analyze his surroundings.
“Here,” a woman’s voice says in accented English. “They left water for you. Pills.” He struggles to even turn and look at her. She’s from the Chinese delegation. Liu Fa, though he’s certain that is an alias. Officially, she is a junior member of their team, but Mycroft noted how the others discreetly deferred to her, how one of them always made her tea for her when they took breaks. Like him, her status as a minor official is a smokescreen.
She holds a bottle with a straw jammed in it- they must have anticipated his inability to properly move. She is patient as he drinks, waiting for him to finish. As far as he can tell, she looks like she escaped the core of the blast entirely with only a few scratches, though her clothes are a bit singed.
“Thank you ,” he responds in Mandarin.
A smile flits across her lips and vanishes. “ I doubt it will provide us much advantage to switch languages. We are being watched .” Her gaze shifts over her shoulder, and he realizes there is a camera there. Whatever operation this is, it is advanced and well-funded.
“What have I missed?” he asks, his voice still gravelly despite the water.
“We were separated upon arrival, I believe in order of importance. There is at least one other cell nearby, containing at least one of the Italians and the leader of the Japanese, who I think is somewhat badly off. The South Koreans were all taken on their own.”
Mycroft makes a hmming sound. “North Korea?”
“Financed, likely. Not directly involved. Too dangerous.” The glint in her eye is clear. The feelings of the rest of the world might not be a large concern for North Korea, but they surely do not want the wrath of China on them. He feels the fabric of his shirt shifting, and the nudge of cotton bandages over his skin makes him hiss in pain- she’s looking over his wound. “This is battlefield medicine. You require a proper doctor.”
“Yes, it does feel like that.” He carefully extends a hand and gently prods, wincing with each near-blinding burst it sends through him. The medic, if he can call her that, had called for staples. He’s likely not even properly sutured, just pinned together, if they’re even a proper medical grade. It’s not the sort of surgery one would provide if they meant to trade him back to his government. It’s a short-term fix. Long enough to talk to and nothing more. “Have they spoken to anyone yet?” By which he means has anyone been tortured for information yet?
She understands immediately. “No one I could hear.”
“They’re waiting for someone,” another voice from across the room growls. The lone strategist from Mossad, called Nassi, a man who had infiltrated several terrorist groups in the Middle East. Unofficially, Mycroft is certain he is likely the one also responsible for several cells simply vanishing from the map, never to be seen again. Mycroft permits himself a small flicker of hope. If any members of the team are likely to be both dangerously intelligent and physically formidable, it is these two. Both Israel and China have a reputation for extreme capability, especially when pushed- though once Nassi moves, Mycroft feels his brief elation fade. He’s got a brace around his arm, made of simple torn cloth- even from here Mycroft is sure that it’s broken. Badly. “Maybe waiting for you to wake up, Antarctica.”
Mycroft huffs a laugh. It hurts. “I am not so important.”
“Do not play at false modesty, Holmes. We three, in a room together, culled from the rest? They already know who we are.”
He lets his head fall back to the cot. The skin under his hand, beside the bandages, feels warm. Infection.
Under the pain of it all, the first real flickers of fear unfurl, digging in to his soul, reminding him that he may yet die. Or perhaps he’ll be tortured first, and then die. The thoughts slither through his blood, and his throat goes thick, his eyes wet.
Mycroft closes his eyes, willing himself to neither cry nor scream. His memory- or pain-induced hallucination- conjures a Gregory to lay beside him, stroking his hair. “Don’t worry, love. You’re brilliant, you are. You’ll think of something.”
***
There is shifting over the next few hours. The three of them in Mycroft’s cell listen as one of the Italians is carried off, presumably for interrogation. His protests are loud.
He’s far more quiet when they bring him back.
“One of them will break,” Nassi pronounces. “Tell them everything we had in place.”
Neither Mycroft nor Fa say anything. It doesn’t require an answer. It’s a statement of fact.
His wound is itching. Burning. Pain is simply a part of him now. The pills don’t particularly help- he wonders if they’re even processing. If certain of his organs were damaged, they might not be. It’s hard to say. His clavicle aches- he’s not sure if they even did anything to set it, or simply bound his arm so he wouldn’t make it worse.
He’s fairly certain he’s started a fever by the time he hears the footsteps coming.
“Mycroft.”
Ah. He knew he recognized the voice on the radio. “Lord Moran.” He grimaces a smile as his mind whirs, dredging up the information on various politicians he has stored away in its massive vault. He’s been on a list for some time for suspected sales of information to North Korea, his access to information cut down to a controllable drip while the threat was evaluated. Terrorism would be a bit more of an advanced step than his people had expected out of a mere politician. “You’ll forgive me that I don’t get up.”
“Oh, don’t worry, old chap. We’ve got people for that. Clear the door, please.” Mycroft watches both Fa and Nassi retreat to the opposite corner of the cell with flat, neutral expressions.
One of Moran’s thugs reaches under his arms and pulls, and Mycroft cries out as the staples pull. They make him walk, stumbling and tilting, down a hall to another room. Every step is agony. He can feel himself sweating, a dampness near his bandages that is either infection or bleeding.
Sadly, he is not so lucky that he passes out from shock before he gets to the room.
There are questions, then. Interrogations. Mycroft is trained for this sort of thing, anyone at his level has been.
First, compartmentalize.
Pain must be separated out. It is easier to resist if one can convince oneself it is happening to someone else. Psychologists would call it disassociation. For Mycroft, it is a retreat. He does not maintain a mind palace, as Sherlock does, but he can make one. Imagine.
Second, do not resist the urge to pass out.
If he is asleep, he cannot say anything of use. This is a challenge, of course, anyone already willing to ignore the official standards of human rights has methods to circumvent a body’s effort to protect itself with rest. Time becomes confused, after a while. It isn’t worth keeping track of. He tells himself it is hours. Merely hours.
Third, if the opportunity presents itself, remove the capability for information to be shared.
This is the option no one can practice, for it will only serve once.
He doesn’t talk. They know who he is, and he feigns smalltalk with Moran like they’re just chatting over tea. But no real information is passed, nothing confirmed other than his growing and continued familiarity with a great deal of pain.
For now, he can resist.
They pull him back in three more times. He holds, barely. The others go as well- they are none of them untrained for this sort of thing. Mycroft assumes Fa and Nassi give up nothing either.
None of them talk about it.
The injury to his side worsens, both through what now seems to be an obvious infection and ill treatment. It’s the fever he’s worried about. He might not be able to exert the same rigorous control over his mind, the shutting out of the increasing levels of damage to his system, if he’s ill on top of that. Delirious, even. After the last time he doesn’t even have a clear recollection of being returned to his cell.
Not good.
“Do you think he’ll cry, your Greg?” Moran asks him, apropos of nothing. Mycroft’s eyes go sharp, his entire body suddenly very, keenly aware of every minute detail in Moran’s expression. Has he hurt Gregory?
Oh, god, Gregory isn’t here, is he?
It is the single worst thing he can think of. Heart racing, he forces every ounce of his analytic mind into evaluating Lord Moran’s every word.
“Perhaps I’ll deliver word myself,” Lord Moran says, too casual. “After we’re done with you… well. God, what might your sale price be on the open market? Easier to tell him of your tragic death, don’t you think?”
Mycroft processes, not nearly as dispassionately as he’d usually like. It’s a threat. Greg is untouched for now.
But they will hurt him to make me talk.
How long will it be before they decide to employ that leverage? Mycroft is too weak, too ill and injured to employ more direct methods toward his escape. Remove the capability for information to be shared.
The plan forms as Moran talks on, an icy dagger lacing his heart. Better this way. Better than letting them take Gregory.
When they bring him back, dumping his weakened body on the cot, the others are murmuring to each other..
“They will sell you back to your people, sure, but me- plenty of groups in the Middle East will want me,” Nassi is saying, almost proud. Fa merely hums in agreement.
Have they both gone out and come back again without him noticing? Christ, it’s worse than I thought.
The mission must be preserved. Otherwise all those deaths will mean nothing. Some of them have to get out. Report back. Regroup and start again.
The rest cannot give up anything.
He coughs, beckoning Fa closer. “Water, please.” When she’s nearby, he whispers in Mandarin. “Can you exfiltrate on your own? With him?”
“He is an expert,” she breathes back. “But any attempt to break the lock will be noted.”
“You need tools.” He looks pointedly down.
Her eyes widen briefly, then her face returns to neutral, studying him. “You are serious.”
“Yes.”
She slips back to the other side of the room, passing the suggestion in quiet tones to Nassi. Mycroft’s Hebrew is not as good as his Mandarin, but he’s fairly certain that Nassi’s mutter in response means something like “fuck, he has balls.”
They have to do it quickly, before whoever is watching the cameras realizes. Nassi starts it, feigning an outburst of anger that ends in him attacking the camera with the contents of the bucket they’ve been allotted for relieving themselves, effectively blinding it. For the next part, Fa gently stuffs Mycroft’s tie in his mouth. “Thank you,” she says. He nods. He will probably pass out. The shock may kill him outright. Not a thing about this is medically sound or hygienic.
Thank you will have to be enough.
“Ready?” Nassi is at his side, already pulling off the bandage with his good hand. He nods again. Fa takes Mycroft’s hand, holding him down with a greater strength than her slim frame would suggest.
In the end, Nassi pulls three. Two are all they need for the lock, unfurled small pieces of metal converted in expert hands to a lockpick. Hopefully the rest of the place is not protected with anything stronger.
The last staple is placed in Mycroft’s shaking hand.
There is only one thing to do with it.
Everything is shaking. Blurry. He might have passed out, but he can’t be sure. He feels dizzy, sweaty and sick. Fa and Nassi are gone, the cell door standing open, if only he had the strength to get up and walk through it. There is so much pain. People are shouting somewhere nearby. Gunfire. Probably in pursuit of Fa and Nassi.
He has to finish. He knows too much, far too much.
He wonders if someone will still be able to donate his brain to science.
The metal digs into his skin- it’s hard to grasp it correctly in his weakened condition. Finish the damaged side first, then. He tears at the binding for his clavicle, his arm screaming, and the shouting is only getting closer-
“Mycroft!”
Hands are grabbing at him, trying to stop him- they can’t, he can’t let them, he has to end it, has to protect Gregory-
“Mycroft, stop it! Stop it. Jesus. Myc- Myc, look at me. Look at me, gorgeous.”
He blinks. Surely Gregory cannot actually be here, not in black tactical armor and toting a military shotgun- surely he’s either hallucinating or dreaming.
Or dead. The was the idea, wasn’t it?
Dead seems like too much of a stretch, however, for how much it hurts when Greg tries to help him sit up, pulling the tie from his mouth. There’s a howling sound echoing in the cell and it’s only when he realizes that his throat aches that Mycroft comprehends it’s coming from his own lungs.
“Greg…. You can’t, love, I’m too- can’t move. I can’t move. Hurts too much.”
“I know, I know love. Met some friends of yours, they gave us a little run-down.”
His eyes are tired, but he can see Greg looking down, making an inscrutable face at the worst of his injuries- or it would be for anyone other than Mycroft, who can see all the flashes of anguish and fear and rage in it. Bad. Must be bad. “There’s others, love- less hurt- better to get them out first- better for our…” He winces as Greg wraps his arm back up. Not healing, his body seems to scream. Not right. “...diplomatic relations….”
“That’s Anthea’s problem, love. She’s got the cavalry. You get me all to yourself.” Greg pushes his hair back, stroking it lovingly, and Mycroft can only whimper. Protocol is to die, protocol is to already be dead, to protect the information above all.
“Greg- you have to tell them I didn’t talk- I didn’t- I’m meant to….” His eyes drift lower, taking in the gouges he’s made in his own arms, not quite deep enough to matter.
“Stop it,” Greg says sternly. “Just- stop that. You’re-” He inhales, and Mycroft can see the effort it takes for him to keep it all in. Pain. Pain for me. Because of me.
“Love- please, I’m… no use. Please, just- leave me here, and they won’t hurt you, you’ll be alright, I promise-”
“If you believe that, you’re more of an idiot than you let on. Besides, your friend Fa is with Anthea. Think she’s feeling a bit personal about things, has some designs on carving the penitence back into a certain wayward lord. Godspeed, I say. The other one had to go into surgery, otherwise I think we’d be getting Moran back in pieces.” Greg tucks the binding back in as best he can, sticks the bandages to the leaking mess on Mycroft’s side. “Now, this is going to hurt. I’m sorry, love, but I’m going to have to ask you to try not to scream, alright? Try and be quiet, if you can. Can you do that?”
Mycroft starts to respond, but apparently Greg is not expecting a full answer. His arms slide under Mycroft’s shoulders and legs, strong in a way that Mycroft has never felt before, and Mycroft can only sob in quiet, gasping breaths into the armor on Greg’s chest.
“Shhh, shhh. I know. You’re alright.”
Moving is worse, so much worse. Even carefully carried, each slight jostle is excruciating. The nausea, that faint feeling like he’s on the verge of blacking out returns in force. Greg is moving quickly, no doubt to try and get him to a hospital, though at this point Mycroft wonders if that may be a lost cause. “Greg- just- leave me, help Anthea-“
“I will not. Now hush.” He can hear feet, running, and Greg pulls them into a corner, hand pressed to Mycroft’s mouth as he lowers Mycroft to the floor. “Shh…. Stay here.”
One of Moran’s thugs rounds the corner and Greg sucker punches him squarely between the eyes, spinning him by the hair to serve as a human shield against the incoming hail of bullets. Then he charges ahead, out of Mycroft’s view, with a clash and the sound of fighting punctuated by the occasional shot. Mycroft can’t bear it, can’t bear to think that they might be hurting Greg- it would be all his fault if they were, wouldn’t it- Greg came here for him , after all. He might have been spared all this if Mycroft's useless body had managed to simply die when the initial rocket hit.
Mycroft drags himself across the floor, desperate to see. If Greg is injured- worse- he doesn’t know what he’ll do.
It would break him more than any torture could.
Managing to crawl up to the corner, he rounds it to find a barrel directly in his face. “Oh, bollocks,” Greg growls. “Mycroft, I told you not to move, love. I could’ve shot you. Jesus.”
It’s too much. He’s so relieved that Greg is fine, perfectly fine, and in such a great deal of pain that he just starts openly sobbing, reaching for his husband. He’ll take the pain, any amount of pain, if Greg will hold him.
“Love….” Greg’s face twitches between the steely resolve he’s kept up so well and utter devastation, which helps Mycroft not at all when he spies it through the haze of his tears. My fault, my fault…. “Darlin’... just a bit father, alright? Just a bit farther.”
He bends low, scooping up Mycroft once more, and the pain is enough that Mycroft just cries, weeping silently into Greg’s armor.
It’s blurry after that. Mycroft flickers in and out- there’s transit of some sort, flashes of a sterile sort of room that makes him panic, screaming for his love until the sedation kicks in. Darkness. Gregory’s voice, his warm hand on Mycroft’s, whispering soft words to him.
“Hey gorgeous.”
Mycroft blinks, his eyes slow to react. “Gregory?
“Hi darlin’. How’s my sleeping beauty?”
“Sore.” He shifts gently, taking a slow and achy inventory of his person. As his mind reminds him of the last state of his body it had archived, he instinctively reaches a shaky hand down, down to where the staples had been-
A strong, steady hand about his own stops him. “Leave that.” Greg’s voice is a bit firmer than Mycroft expects, and he shrinks back into the pillows. “Sorry- sorry, love. But you- we’re going to keep an eye on things, alright, and it’s best if you just don’t… touch any of it. Yet.”
“Alright.” Something about that statement pings at Mycroft. Something about Gregory’s tone, worried and… even a little angry…. Oh. His eyes shift to the bandages across one forearm, the IV pumping just above them. “Gregory, I’m not… at risk . It was-”
“Mycroft, if you say it was necessary , I am going to have to leave this room.” Mycroft closes his mouth. Greg looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a few long, deep breaths. “I realize you- look, you don’t have to talk about it, I know there’s-”
“It’s what- it’s part of our training- protect the information, no matter-”
“Sod the information, Mycroft, what about you?” There’s a thickness in Greg’s voice, a certain wetness in his eyes that Mycroft feels in his very soul. My fault. Mine. “I didn’t go in there to protect your precious data, I went in there for you.” His jaw tightens, and Mycroft feels his own eyes watering against his will, his body still betraying him. “We weren’t going to give up, you know, me and Anthea. Not either of us.”
The wetness on Mycroft’s own cheeks thickens, making the room hazy. He sniffs, trying to hold back the deluge. He cannot recall a time he’s felt anything so keenly as the terror for his beloved’s life that will not quite leave him and the guilt he feels for making his husband worry. “Gregory- I thought they’d- thought they’d come for you, to make me- I couldn’t bear it-”
“I would have gone, love. I would have if it meant you weren’t alone down there. Happy to go.” Greg’s hand finds his cheek, wiping the tears in vain. Mycroft leans into it, just trying to hang on. “I just couldn’t bear it if I lost you, Myc. You’re- everything. You are my everything.”
Mycroft reaches a tentative hand out, grasping the very edge of Greg’s shirt, choking back a sob. “Gregory….” He pulls, and Greg slips forward, carefully wrapping his arms about Mycroft, who finally begins crying openly. The tears slip from him in hot waves, expelled in choking, wracked sobs. “Gregory-”
“I’m here, love. Right here.”
Mycroft buries his face in Greg’s chest, sobbing until the tears dry, heaving and shaking. Greg holds him, stroking his hair and whispering loving, calming things until he’s settled enough to be laid back amongst his pillows, his hand finding Greg’s and holding it like it’s giving him oxygen. “Stay with me? I- I need you.”
Greg climbs onto the cot as best he can, negotiating the wires and the bandages so Mycroft can cuddle him close. Mycroft is impatient in letting him, wrapping them together as close as he can. I love you, don’t leave me. I love you. Greg’s breath is warm and soothing in his hair. “Don’t worry, love. I’m not going anywhere. Married you, didn’t I?” He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”
***
There’s something about scent that assures him everything is alright. They’ve gotten a coffee maker they can set on a timer, brewing a cup well before either of them are expected to be up, because Mycroft is less likely to startle himself awake if he can smell it. The smell ensures he knows the arms about him are actually Greg’s and not some hallucination, that he’s in his own bed and nothing in the world can hurt him.
It doesn’t happen often, not anymore. But when it does, Gregory is always there in an instant, holding him, whispering to him until Mycroft feels safe again.
Medically, he’s recovered with little to show for it but a few deep scars and a recommendation to keep away from strenuous sports for the sake of his lungs- but no one was particularly surprised when he quietly resigned his position in favor of something closer to consulting. In effect, he holds the same amount of influence, but no one can force him to take meetings he does not want to. These days, he’s become quite enamored of video conferencing. That way no one can tell if he actually has Greg in the room, discreetly holding his hand under his desk.
The change has also given him the freedom to manage a very off-books arrangement between certain foreign agents and Anthea, now serving in his former position, as they conduct one of the most thorough silent takedowns of a terrorist organization the intelligence community has ever seen. Mycroft prefers not to admit how satisfying it feels every time he speaks with Fa, a soft smile on her face as she narrates whatever extremely creative and thorough methods she or Nassi have employed to acquire them their next target.
They’re considering applying their skill set to other targets, once they’re done. Mycroft has not decided yet whether he will join them.
For now, he’s content to settle in for quiet nights with Greg and having his love try his damndest to convince Mycroft to take an interest in football, though he’s usually more successful at getting Mycroft to take an interest in crawling into his lap and sipping cocoa while Greg holds him, muttering about tackles and overacting players.
In the morning, however, it’s always the smell of coffee that gets him started right.
“G’morning, love,” Greg whispers, his nose nuzzling into Mycroft’s hair. “Sleep alright?”
Mycroft rolls in Gregory’s arms, tucking his face into his favorite spot on Greg’s chest. “I believe I did.”
“Good.” Greg’s hand winds around his back, slipping under his shirt to stroke against bare skin. “Breakfast?”
“In a bit.”
“Mmmkay.” Greg pulls him closer, twining their legs together. “Want to stay in bed all day? Bring you some fruit and cheese and chocolates?”
Mycroft smirks into his husband’s pectorals. “Mmm, I knew there was a reason I married you.”
“S’what I signed up for, innit? Love and honour, til death do us part, and also treat your husband like an emperor from time to time.”
“Hmph. I think it’s your turn to be emperor for a bit.” Mycroft wraps them as close as they can get. Food or no, neither of them is moving anywhere for a while, not if he has anything to say about it. “I love you, Gregory.”
“I know, darlin’.” Greg brushes some errant hair from Mycroft’s forehead to kiss him, and Mycroft can feel the smile on his lips. “I love you too.”